Lonesome
by wordspank
Summary: So slap me if it's not smoochy. Randy is lonely. He mopes. He broods. He thinks about a girl. His unsure feelings about things. A RandyStephanie piece. Don't kill me.


Steph-centric! I haven't written outside slash online for a long, long time, and I haven't written wrestling for doubly long. So this goes to people who've supported me in my wrestling days. This is certainly _not_ smoochy. hides. Time frame to note: Current 29thNovember2004 based Raw.

**Randy has a good mope and rant.**

Given the pairing, I am _not _expecting many praising reviews.

Lonesome

R

Perhaps it wasn't wise of me to propose claiming the GM job on Raw. 'Spur of the moment' decisions were never quite characteristic of the Ortons, and I don't know what the hell I was thinking when the idea crossed my mind.

Girls, secretaries, power to grant, asses to kick with no consequences.

Overacheiving, much?

Who gives a fuck.

Now that I'm behind a desk, I fathom in the life of a General Manager in Sports Entertainment.

But there are no girls, no massages, no hot tubs, no pools of money to swim in. I haven't even got the chance to reclaim the title from the dirt monkey Triple H and his lackeys. I can't believe I hid under the wing of Evolution. But at least riding on their coattails got me here.

There isn't much fathoming going on. Just alot of thinking. It's quiet, with an empty arena, fans emptying themselves long ago. It's harder than I thought it would be. And here I am.

All alone.

I slap myself a few times. _You're a wreck, Randy,_ I think to myself. _All you think about is that title and women._ Shallow, I would say so myself. But is it that wrong for me to want to enjoy passion and dream?

Is it wrong that I wanted a GM status just to hope for someone to come back?

Yeah, yeah, after that lingerie thing out there, everyone knows those leggy Divas never came to my office to collect their clothes, everyone knows I just tossed them somewhere on the ground and retreated behind the desk again, because I'm not really that interested. I'm not really that kind of guy who wished I had models throwing themselves at me, and draping themselves over me like a sweat-soaked towel on a bench.

Yeah, loneliness does these things to you.

Let me tell you something, loneliness doesn't catch up until you miss out on a girl you weren't sure of.

How stupid of me, to look at the Boss' daughter like that. A good handful of men looked at her the same way, but she never gave the slightest glance to anyone, except for the shit-face Triple H. Yeah, sure, the divorce story was hot, what with Jericho and all (another bastard I'd like to beat if he weren't on my team), but under that...

I pick up the pen on my desk and spin it with my fingers.

But anyway, I would only make a simple substitute to take her bitter sorrows away. What, with RVD having run errands in the ECW era, with Jericho's subtle wooing since the beginning of his career, with Angle snatching every opportunity he could to be with her at one point,l and with Bischoff's sick kiss he forced on her;

I could only offer so much as a sturdy observation from the top of her head to the ridges of her heels. She never bothered to notice me.

Stephanie, you bitch.

Not that it was her fault. Sure, I liked the idea of having a billion dollar princess in my bed then, but I also liked the tiny stature of Trish and the endless pins of Stacy. I was young. I'm a man. With so much flesh being bared, your mind has to take a walk sometimes. It was, just that, well, she was unattainable. It was sick of me to want something so out of reach. Nabbing the world title was considered a walk in the park compared to having to capture her slightest attention. Maybe I was _too_ young. Too cocky.

But now that I think of it, I took the challenge because I was hoping to see her again. Maybe she'd come back down from the backstage Creative management at the top of the building headquarters, to the ring on the television, and the both of us can stare each other down as GMs of our respective brands, with the intensity far greater than what she and Eric Bischoff had, with something going a little deeper than sharp words and heated glares that even the world could decipher and suspect.

Maybe I could kiss her on global television like three or four other men did, and get away with it.

Maybe we could have a scandalous rendevous. It doesn't have to be in print or in the ring, it just has to be birthed by a simple telephone call.

_Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe---_

With a frustrated moan, I throw the pen to the carpet, which bounces off the ground and settles in front of the couch. It's not enough. I stand, grabbing the ceramic lamp from my desk and hurling it across the room. Much better.

A few moments later, a knock on the door prompts me to look up. "Come in."

"Sir, are you alright?" a man with a headset pops his head in.

I wave him away. "Yeah, I am. Go home." Damn workers have to keep hanging around after the shows. He nods and closes the door behind him.

I stare at the mess I've made. I'm in Baltimore, and God knows where she is. Lonely, so lonely. I hope she's suffering the same fate.

Or at least, I hope to see her in business again soon.

At least, then, I can do more than just look at her after lacing up my boots.


End file.
